


roses and revenge

by arcadianwriter (noxstories)



Series: Perfidious Empire [APH] [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, American Revolution, Emotional Manipulation, Heartbreak, Heavy Makeout Scene, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, M/M, Manipulation, Perfidious Empire, alcohol abuse implied??, bc why not, england is an asshole, inspired by ‘Someone Gets Hurt’, once again I cannot tag, so is France (kinda), starring England (British Empire) as Regina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 06:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20791925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxstories/pseuds/arcadianwriter
Summary: in which arthur isn’t so happy that his francis dated alfred, however briefly, and sets out to prove who francis will always come back to without fail.or, there’s a reason Alfred didn’t help Francis in his own revolution.or, author listens to someone gets hurt from mean girls, and he promptly decides to base a fic round it.





	roses and revenge

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!! This is just a little one-shot I really like that I thought I’d publish! It’s been sitting in my notes for a while so I finished it today, so here it is! The fic set a few years after the American Revolution, and Alfred and Francis are dating (at least, Alfred thinks that..) unbeknownst to Arthur, who stumbles upon them in this and decides to teach his former colony a lesson by breaking his heart. It’s pretty sad for Alfred and there might be a sequel,, we’ll see,, I love posting these Hetalia fics, so expect one again soon maybe!!
> 
> If ya like, leave kudos and a comment if you want to!! Thank you so much reading, and enjoy!

Reeling still with the golden grains of victory rushing through his veins, Alfred arrived at the World Meeting surprisingly early, so early that he wondered fleetingly if he’d come to the wrong place. Glancing at Francis’ letter, with the address clearly noted, his doubts were eased. Francis would never lie to him or trick him.

The only nation who had ever done that to him was long gone from his life now.

Smile dimming somewhat at the bitterly cold thought of his former mentor, Alfred hesitated before entering the grand doors, swallowing back uncharacteristic nerves. Arthur’s — England’s — words still rang in his ears, icy as ever:

”_You might have won the war, but don’t think for a damn second your fight is over,” the Empire had spat, shaking with fury. “God help you for crossing me. It pays to have the world’s biggest empire on your side, and I pity the fate of what you call a country.” Spitting neatly on the ground at his feet, he’d crossed the room, one hand raising as if to hit him, only to forcibly lower it, not at the thought of hitting his ex-colony, but instead at the twinge of pain from his own wounds, a grimace crossing his face. “You think any country is really on your side? You really believe anyone will think of you as a proper nation? You make me laugh. Stay out of my way, brat, and get. Out.”_

His mentor had never been sweet, but the venom and sheer conviction of his hatred in his words had thrown Alfred off at the time. It did so now too, leaving him awkwardly lingering at the doors of the World Meeting building. Biting on his lip anxiously, Alfred took a shaky deep breath, plastered the bright smile back to his face, and continued inside, ignoring the way the bright sun seemed to darken as he did so.

Arthur had lost, and would never control him again, not anymore. That part of his life was over.

The building was complex, and Alfred struggled to find his way to the meeting room, awkwardly stopping to ask some people in the building for work where the nation meeting room was, though most of them simply stared at him as if he was disrupting their time. This was Britain after all — unfortunately — so maybe they were still sore over their losses a few years back. Alfred knew Arthur was, so this hostility from the native British people didn’t ease his anxieties. If this was how the people were, what must the nation itself think about him?

...He couldn’t afford to think like that. He was the hero, the world’s darling right now! He had many allies, none closer than the rival of Arthur himself, the personification of France, or, as he’d insisted Alfred called him, Francis.

_Fran_.

Speaking of him, Alfred’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of his familiar face inside a room, looking pensive and troubled. He seemed to be alone, and a beam worked its way over the young American’s face as he shoved the door open, wincing as it slammed against the wall. Oops. He was still working out his super strength.

”Francis!” He greeted in delight, feeling a red flush work its way onto his face. Francis and his relationship was more... _intimate_... than most, Alfred thought. In the midst of his revolution, bruised and battered, Alfred had approached Francis, tipsy off cheap wine and dizzy from cheaper cigarettes, and confessed feelings more than friendly to him. To his delight, Francis had taken him up on his advances, and the two had been engaged in amorous affairs ever since. Alfred didn’t want to say in a relationship (could countries even be in relationships?), for fear of frightening the older away, but truly, he was madly, deeply, head over heels in love with Francis.

He adored him so much it felt like his heart would fall out of his chest, or like it would burst. Speaking to the French nation made his heart feel like the wings of a butterfly and the words he spoke like precious jewels, of which Francis collected every one of them tenderly. Francis was the first nation to really take Alfred seriously as a nation, and so it made sense why Alfred cared for him so.

”L’Amerique.” Contrary to Alfred’s joyful tone, Francis’ was measured, detached. Normally, Alfred would pause at this, confused by the tone, but glee at seeing his Francis overwhelmed him, and he rushed into his arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek gently.

”You’re okay!” He cheered, closing his eyes in the embrace. “I was a little worried. I hadn’t heard from you in a while, and— and I know your country is going through financial troubles right now. I’m sorry to hear that.” He meant it. He knew Francis would be worried about those issues, a far cry from the last time he’d seen the French nation a few years back at the signing of the treaty between America and Britain. Arthur had been, of course, miserable and furious, as well as drunk, but Alfred and Francis had a wonderful night. They’d drank and danced and talked the night away, cheerful and giddy with victory... Alfred’s heart ached to make Francis like that again.

“L’Amerique,” Francis murmured, strained. “Cher, I—“

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this just _touching_.”

Alfred pulled away from Francis as if scalded, nausea staining the back of his throat as he spun round. There, standing in the doorway, looking as grand and as regal as ever, was Arthur — the British Empire, really, as made evident from the dark blood red coat he had on, and the crooked crown sewn over his heart.

“England.”

“That’s British Empire to you, America,” the older said, calmly, though his eyes were cold and slitted, like that of a snake, Alfred realised with some fright. “Truly, touching. Lovers reunited after the war... Or so _one_ of you seems to think, in any case.”

Confusion cleared the fog of fear clouding Alfred’s mind, and his gaze landed on the half empty glass of rum in his former mentor’s hand, mentally scoffing. Trust Arthur to fall back to bad habits to cope.

“What, you can’t bear to see Francis and I do happy when you’re so miserable?” He asked, a note of cockiness slipping into his sunny voice. Francis squeezed his hand in a silent plea for silence, but Alfred ignored it and ploughed on. “I get it, really, it must be pretty difficult—“

“More like I can’t bear to see Francis act as if he truly cares about you, when it’s all a sham,” Arthur interrupted. “It’s pitiful, really, it is, to see you fall for his acts. I thought I taught you better, boy.” His tone was so matter of fact and certain that Alfred froze, uncertainly.

“What do you mean, it’s a sham?” He questioned, swallowing thickly and hardly wanting to know the answer. Arthur actually chuckled, a soft, menacing sound, stepping closer with a pitying noise.

“You really thought he loved you?” He asked, tilting his head to the right and surveying Alfred through cruel eyes. “Please. Surely you can’t be so stupid to think that he would love an oblivious fool like you. Don’t make me laugh.”

Alfred’s heart thundered in his chest, though not out of joy this time. Everything felt too loud, too close. His grip on Francis’ hand slipped away, too heavy to hold any longer, and when he stepped away from the older, he felt lightheaded, like he would collapse any moment.

“But he— he said he loved me,” he mumbled, the words sounding childish and foolish even to his own ears. Shameful, desperate for a friend amidst this hostility, he turned to Francis, face pleading. “Obviously this isn’t true. This is— this is all lies, right? Fran?” For Francis didn’t even meet his eyes, gaze fixed firmly on Arthur, and if it wasn’t for the tightening of his lips or the guilt growing in his gaze, Alfred would have believed the other hadn’t even heard.

“Oh dear,” Arthur crooned, and Alfred sensed him growing closer rather than seeing him move, “trouble in paradise? Poor, poor Alfred, thinking an Empire could love a colony when he already belongs to someone else.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” Alfred hissed.

“No, not anymore.” Arthur’s voice hit a flat note on that sentence, and he closed his eyes, seemingly calming himself, before continuing on. “But I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about your dear _Fran_.”

Francis jerked at the nickname like it burned from Arthur’s lips. Maybe it did.

“France..?” Alfred dared look to Francis, looking for any signs he was listening to him, but the Empires eyes were locked together in some sort of personal silent battle. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s an Empire, Empires aren’t owned!”

Arthur pursued his lips briefly in consideration of such a statement. “You don’t know the ins and outs of being a nation,” he told Alfred, dismissively. “You couldn’t understand. I don’t mean physically. Nobody owns France but its rulers. But... Francis?” He laughed coolly, and the frosty sound shattered in Alfred’s face. “I’m afraid you were pursuing a dog already with master.”

“I don’t understand.” Alfred was loathe to admit it, words spilling out like a river trying to defrost in late spring, hopelessly lost and struggling to stay afloat in this conversation of countries. “I don’t— We were in an alliance, we made love, he told me he loved me! W-What—“

“An alliance is one thing,” Arthur sneered, words turning to ice as they left his mouth, “but a relationship? Truly, you’re naive, Alfred. It’s almost endearing. Almost. How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t believe anything the French try to say to you. They’re filthy liars. It’s only a pity you didn’t heed my advice and found out the hard way.” A faint glimmer of amusement crossed the British Empire’s face, and he lifted Alfred’s chin up with two fingers mockingly at his words.

“That’s _enough_.”

Alfred jerked his head to face Francis, fiercely swiping away tears he hadn’t even realised were spilling from his eyes, hope growing anew in his chest. Francis would speak up and put Arthur straight now, he just knew it! He’d known the other nation would never lie to him, he just wouldn’t — only Arthur spoke in lies, only Arthur would be cruel enough to lead him on. Francis would never. There was a hard light in Francis’ eyes, not perpetually cold like Arthur’s gaze, but fiery hot and angry. Ashamed.

“Oh?” Arthur said, feigning surprise. “A few words from France himself? We are blessed. Anything to add on the topic of finance, perhaps? Any advice on how to ruin your country?”

“Arthur, please,” Francis said quietly, much to Alfred’s surprise. “Stop it. Sit down, please. Others will be here for the meeting soon.”

“Sit down?” Arthur asked, a mocking pout slipping over his face. “Why would I want to, when things are only just getting interesting? Is there a reason you won’t deny the allegations, dear? Is there?”

“You’re not thinking straight,” Francis replied, a little more forcefully this time. “Sit down, and we can resolve this issue like adults, with diplomacy—“

“I,” Arthur said, louder than ever, and with a genuine rage simmering just behind the frost of his words, “am _sick and fucking tired of diplomacy_.” Abandoning his grip on Alfred’s chin (that was beginning to throb; Arthur was strong), the Empire strode over to Francis, eyes glimmering with barely concealed madness and hidden intent. “Aren’t you? Why don’t you give up the act and tell the boy the truth, hmm?”

“There is no truth.” Francis’ tone was flat, final, though something in it was wary enough that Alfred looked up. Francis sounded... nervous, almost. What reason did he have to be nervous? This talk was too confusing for him — it was much easier when people could just state what they meant without the pretence. “You’re making a scene. Your mind is addled, Britain. Come now, let us sit.”

“Deny this then, if you will, and I’ll sit like a dog for you,” Arthur told him smoothly, running a hand through his hair, and Alfred felt something catch in his throat when he saw Francis’ eyes flicker over Arthur’s face, from his lips back up to his eyes. He recognised it: it was the same look Francis used to give him. “Deny that you thought of me when bedding Alfred. Tell me that you didn’t think of me when Alfred, blonde haired and pretty and _stubborn_, called out your name, when he gasped for more. Deny your heart was with me that night, and every night since that you spent in his company, and I’ll comply with your wishes.”

Alfred sagged in relief. One little truth from Francis, one little statement, and this would be over. Something had unhinged in his old guardian’s mind, that much was clear, and honestly, Alfred just wanted to attend the meeting, and go back home, to America, among his people and cities and land. Looking to Francis expectantly for him to speak, Alfred waited a moment, then two, in silence. Francis’ inability to speak then set off deep, dark suspicion in his heart.

“Francis?” He asked softly, voice wobbling in a way that was far too vulnerable.

“We broke up,” Francis told Arthur levelly, igniting Alfred’s desperate words, though his own trembled. “I do not love you.”

“No,” Arthur agreed, and there was hurt in his voice, that rang fake, but cut deep. “No, you only love my looks and power. I’m not naive, you know.”

“That’s— that’s not true!”

“So you do love me?” The Empire pressed. On Francis’ silence he sighed softly, almost sounding human for a moment, though his eyes remained like ice. “That’s what I thought. Though I thought you’d managed to look past my mask, Francis. I thought you’d be clever enough to see the person I am underneath my sword and crown.” A sad little smile played over his lips, and if Alfred didn’t know his mentor as well as he did, then he would have fallen for it too. As it was, he remained unconvinced at the act, and glanced to Francis (as much as it hurt now, knowing the truth), believing he’d see the same look on his face.

Francis had known Arthur even longer than Alfred himself had, and perhaps that was why it was so jarring and awful to see Francis looked like he believed the expression on Arthur’s face. Surely he had to know it was an act: surely he could see that Arthur was cold stone and hard cruelty and nothing more! It seemed, however, that Francis was desperate to believe that Arthur was indeed human, for he replied, in a softer tone, “I do see past it, Arthur. Of course I do. I’ve known you too long for that.”

Alfred opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it, mutely. He felt like he was witness to a disaster of some sort. This was truly awful.

“Then why,” Arthur continued in a voice unfit for the monster Alfred knew he was, “do you pretend I’m so cruel to you? Why bother with false pretences to other nations when we both know you love me, and only me?”

“That’s—“ Francis sucked in a sharp breath, desperate, but Alfred could see the desire in his eyes, twisted and otherworldly. “Arthur, please. You aren’t—”

“Do I mean nothing to you?” The words sounded tearful, and if Alfred wasn’t paying close attention, he would have missed the malice lining his old mentor’s tone. “Am I some game, some toy you discard when you’re finished? Are the rumours of your persistent unfaithfulness true?”

Francis didn’t reply, but the silence spoke volumes. A thousand different emotions, all of them indecipherable, flashed over his face, and Alfred felt his heart break at every one. He understood, then. He understood his mistake.

“I don’t care if you flirt.” Arthur’s voice was soothing as he stepped towards Francis, who moved to meet him as if entranced. He looked weaker than Alfred remembered him looking, more vulnerable, human, but there was a terrible expression on his face that screamed of his immortal life that he’d spent with hands wrapped around Arthur’s waist or neck, depending on the century. How could Alfred hope to come between that? “I don’t care who you bed. But you’re mine. No matter what. I mean—“ and he released a wild laugh that reminded Alfred of the seas, rough and untamed and beautiful, “you chose _him_ over me. Are you kidding?”

“Arthur,” Francis said again, but now it sounded like a prayer or a plea. Alfred wasn’t sure which was worse. Arthur moved in like the god Francis and the world saw him as, invincible in this room, and Alfred took a step back, a sob burning his throat, but he was invisible to the Empire’s. Just as he’d always been. It was just then, however, that he realised that.

“You’re mine.” Arthur breathed, lithe fingers pressing Francis against the wall. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I’m yours,” Francis murmured, his eyes dancing with age-old desire and care, while his gaze lingered over Arthur’s lips and neck. “I never wasn’t, cher. S’il-vous-plait....”

“If you’re going to walk away from me for the brat,” Arthur continued, power and money lacing his words like a drug, and Francis lapped it up, “then so be it. If you’ve finished playing with me, then walk away. Go. But don’t forget whose heart you’d be breaking.”

_Mine_, Alfred thought miserably, stuck in place watching this disaster of a conversation. Arthur didn’t have a heart to break: that much was clear. Nausea churned his stomach, and he wished he hadn’t eaten so much for breakfast that morning. Everything was going wrong.

“I would never,” Francis told him reverently, breath hitching. “You’re beautiful. I love you. You know this.”

“_Then_ _prove it_.”

They kissed — if it could even be called a kiss. Their lips locked, and their hands roamed, but all Alfred could see was blood. The blood leaking from Francis’ lip when Arthur bit it, the blood colour of his redcoat, the blood red wine he’d drank at Francis’ when he’d promised to love him forever and ever.

A pathetic promise for a nation. How naive he’d been. He’d never felt so shattered like this before.

Arthur flipped Francis round, so that it was Arthur pinned against the wall, gasping in a way that could only be described as sinful. His green eyes slowly slid open, reptilian in their movements, and a lazy, cruel grin curled his lips upward. Alfred thought he was going to throw up. His mentor knew exactly what he was doing. He always did, and always got his own way for it.

He’d wanted to hurt Alfred, and by God above, Alfred was hurting.

With one graceless gesture, Arthur indicated to the door, his gaze empirical and ruthless and gleeful, as Francis moved to his neck, arching his back against the French Empire. Alfred, for once, found himself blindly obeying the orders of the Empire, staggering backwards one, two, three steps, before ripping his eyes from the heartbreak in front of him and racing to the door. He should have known better.

He missed the way Francis paused, gazing back in utter guilt and remorse, and the way uncertainty flickered through Arthur’s eyes at the sight of his lover staring back at Alfred’s departure, before he yanked Francis’ head back around to face him, kissing him roughly. 

Alfred was too busy running to see that, vision blurred too badly by tears and sorrow to even try to look back. He needed out. Going there was a mistake. Believing Francis could love him was a mistake. There was something twisted between the two Empires, and he was an idiot for missing it. How could he hope for Francis to love him back when he was so utterly besotted with the untamed creature that was the British Empire?

Outside the building, he retched, but all that came out was a mangled sob from deep within him.

Another win for the perfidious British Empire. 


End file.
